


In Medias Res

by Munks



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Break Up, Brief Sexual Content, Future Fic, Implied/Referenced Mental Illness, M/M, Miscommunication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-07-28 17:56:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7650808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Munks/pseuds/Munks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in me·di·as res<br/>/in ˈmēdēəs ˈres,ˈmādēˌäs/<br/><em>adverb</em></p><p>(Latin) Into the midst of things.</p><p>-</p><p>Fragments of Kenma and Hinata, pre- and post-break up.</p><p>- </p><p><a href="https://ficbook.net/readfic/4923684">Русский translation</a> by <a href="http://lumpeen.tumblr.com/">Lumpeen</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	In Medias Res

**Author's Note:**

> i've been feeling down lately

_Do you still wear my hoodie?_  
[delete]

 _I miss the feeling of your fingers pressed against my hips._  
[delete]

 _I walked by your apartment today. I swear it was muscle memory, but it was almost as if my legs didn't know where to take me other than home._  
[delete]

 

* * *

 

When he was younger, he used to read the missed connections ads on Craigslist.

He never really knew why; never understood his infatuation with scrolling through pages upon pages of people looking for that one person who had slipped right through their fingers.

Most of the threads referenced ships passing in the night; some were written like poetry, sweet and sad, the swaying of words; some were vulgar, crude antidotes of strangers thirsting after people they didn't know or understand. A few ended with _“I hope our paths cross again”_ , and those ones always left a funny feeling in Kenma’s stomach.

 

* * *

 

Depression is a good lover, he thinks. Much better than himself.

So attentive, so meticulous. It spends so much time getting to know you, your world, your habits, that it just becomes _you_.  
His doctor once told him that depression and anxiety go hand in hand; as if they were star crossed lovers, married in a holy matrimony of dirty dishes, bolted doors, and curtained windows. The two of them creep up on him, casting shadows in his sunlight. If he’s not scared, he's sad. If he’s not sad, he’s scared. Sometimes he’s both, sometimes he’s just tired, _exhausted_.

Exhausted from the walks Anxiety takes him around the block, circling again and again because he’s too petrified to step into an empty convenience store in case the clerk tries to talk to him. Exhausted from the dates Depression takes him on to parts of his head he never wanted to go, meeting thoughts he never wanted to think.

Of course, he knows he’s a victim of his insecurities. He’s not stupid; he _knows_ he acts irrationally, that he thinks destructively. That's the problem, isn't it? He’s aware of it all - he understands how misconstrued his mind is, how disconnect his thoughts are from his actions, but he can't seem to stop himself.

He thinks that that's just what mental illness does. It takes and it twists and it destroys perfectly good people, and all they can do is bear witness to it from a glass window in their head. It creates a monetary system out of life - spends his time for him like cheap pocket change.

Time spent in the corner of coffee shops trying not to cry because _“Kenma you need to get out of your apartment more; you can't keep dwelling on the past you need to move on-”_ , and time spent staring at the popcorn ceiling of his bedroom, listening to nothing but his own heart thudding in his chest like two shoes in a drier. Time spent trying to swallow the wad cotton stuck in his throat, threatening to stifle his last breath into nothing but the hollow wheezing sound of air trying to force its way to his lungs, and time spent trying to imagine how euphoric it would feel to simply melt through the floorboards.

 

* * *

 

“You're going to miss the party.” Kuroo tells him. Kenma’s eyes don't stray from the nebulous of colour bleeding together just above the horizon. Shades of peach, shades of blue, shades of strawberry pink kissing and intermingling like the old couples Kenma used to watch in the morning walking through sleepy neighbourhoods. A gentle harmony before the endless void of the night sky takes hold of the Earth’s stratosphere.  
He can hear Bokuto laughing from the backyard; the sound of vegetables charring on the barbecue; bottles clinking and Yaku telling a story to all of their friends.

He feels nauseous.

“Do you have a cigarette?” Kenma asks, head still turned to the bobbing clouds and endless city lights. His feet are still digging into the shingles of the cooling rooftop. Kuroo sighs and although Kenma can’t see it he can feel Kuroo’s eyes roll. “No.” He says, but Kenma knows he's lying. There's a breath of silence, Kenma counts exactly seven seconds in his head before there's a rustling sound. A cigarette slips into his field of vision and he grabs it carefully, tilting his head to watch Kuroo sit down haphazardly on the roof beside him. He’s wearing a red shirt with the word _loveslave_ written on the breast; white letters, all uppercase.

Kuroo gets his own cigarette, lights it, lights Kenma’s too, and they sit together watching the twin spirals of smoke curl and dissipate into the setting sky. The roofing is digging into the thin fabric of Kenma’s pants and he shifts his weight, frowning. Kuroo takes a swig from the beer in his hand before setting the bottle down on the tilted slope.  
“It’s going to roll off.” Kenma points out, but Kuroo just exhales smoke from his nose like some voluptuous dragon without a care in the world. His eyes are glued to the same sunset that seemed to have captivated Kenma moments before, lost in a mosaic of thoughts.

“You want to talk about it?” Kuroo asks. There's another of moment of silence and Kenma squirms under his words. That seems to be his thing, Kenma thinks. Always picking up on the details, always reading Kenma like a book when no one else seems to be able to. He’s always been the mother in their relationship and it almost pisses Kenma off.

“No.” Kenma mutters, petulant, so Kuroo tries a different approach.

“It's not your fault.”

“I know.” _Yes it is._

“But you’re still upset over it.”

“Not really.” _I just don’t know what to do with myself anymore._

Kuroo doesn’t reply to that.

Silence floods the air, making it difficult to breathe. Kenma takes another lung-full of smoke, holds it in for too long before exhaling. It hurts his throat, clawing at the fleshy tissue as he stifles the cough threatening bubble up. He’s never been much of a smoker; could probably count all the cigarettes he’s ever had on his own two hands. But, lately, he’s been craving them. Not necessarily for the nicotine, no, but he thinks it might be for the companionship.

The two of them stay like that for a while, smoking and watching the sun slowly drip below the hundreds of little houses flickering along the horizon. Kenma feels like a gargoyle, almost. Stationary as he sits perched on Kuroo and Bokuto’s roof, listening to the world move around him while he stays stuck in time.  
Neither of them talk and Kenma doesn't know how long they stay like that but, eventually, Kenma surprises them both by breaking the silence first.

“I always imagined we’d stay together.” He says, voice low, words cracking. “Grow old, have a cat, maybe raise some kids.” Kuroo stays silent and Kenma pushes some hair out of his face, rubs his eyes to rid them of the tears he hadn't realized had formed. He can’t look at Kuroo (he can't, he can't, he _can't_ ) so instead he rambles, nervously picking at the skin of his fingernails. “I… I mean I always saw myself dying at forty-five after a good, happy life, and he’d just… be there, holding my hand when I go. I just… I thought things would end differently, you know?”

“Some people just fall out of love, Kenma. It just happens; we can't prevent it.” Kuroo offers. His voice is solemn, as if he were speaking at a funeral. (Kenma supposes that there _has_ been a death of some sort; a dying deep down in the soul.)

 _Is that what’s going to happen to you and Bokuto?_ Kenma thinks, but anger (or perhaps distress) flashes through Kuroo’s expression and he quickly realizes that he’s said it out loud. Kuroo’s mouth opens and closes, ready to lash-out and reprimand him, but unable to find the words to do so. Kenma quickly shrinks away, defensive.

“Kenma...” Kuroo says, turning to face him completely. The movement jostles the beer bottle perched precariously on the roof and it tips and rolls, gaining speed down the slope and leaving nothing but a foaming trail of fermented yeast in its wake. It falls to the backyard below in a bone-crushing shatter and Kenma flinches. He can already feel the anxiety raising sirens in his brain.

“Hey!” He hears Bokuto’s shriek and Kuroo curses under his breath, inching down the shingles to peer over the edge.

“Sorry babe!” He calls.

“Kuroo?! What are you doing up there?”

“I’m just-” Kuroo glances in Kenma’s direction and all Kenma can do is offer his most pleading eyes. _Please don't tell anyone I'm here. Please let me be alone._ “-I’m just up here for a smoke!”

“No way! I’ll come up there, one sec!”

“Bo, no - you’re too drunk, you’ll fall off-”

“I’m heading upstairs now!” Bokuto calls back, cutting Kuroo off. His voice is fainter than before as he presumably rushes inside. Kuroo curses again, scurrying back to where Kenma’s sitting and stubbing out his half-finished cigarette. He sighs and gives Kenma a glance that’s hard to understand before standing and running his hand through his hair. “I have to go make sure my dumbass fiancé doesn’t fall off a roof and break his neck.” He tells him, heading over to the open window Kenma had used to get up here. “Just… Just don’t do anything stupid. I care about you, you know. We all do.”

Kenma nods, turning his gaze back to the nearly vanished sunset. “And hey,” Kuroo says. Kenma looks behind his shoulder to see his best friend’s head sticking out of the window frame. “You know you’re welcome to stay here with me and Bokuto whenever you want. I know it takes time.”

Kenma nods, stiff, and Kuroo tosses him his half-smoked cigarette pack as a parting goodbye. Kenma fumbles and drops the cardboard box, barely managing to catch it with his left leg and stop it from sliding off the roof to meet the same fate as Kuroo’s beer bottle. He looks back at the window but Kuroo and his _loveslave_ t-shirt are long gone.

He opens the pack and counts exactly nine cigarettes. He pulls one out, studies it. The brand name _Lucky Strike_ is scrawled in blue font along the edge of the filter. Kenma thinks about what these little sticks of tobacco can do to people. How it can control their lives; rot their bodies from the inside-out. He decides to use the last of the ember from his first cigarette to light the new one now perched between his gravestone lips, kissing the tips together until smoke seeps into the pores of his lungs.

He finishes the rest of the pack by the time he can hear everyone leaving for the night. They say goodbye, Bokuto laughs, Yaku and Kuroo argue - it's all very routine. Kenma climbs back through the window and snakes down the stairs, familiar enough with the layout of Bokuto and Kuroo’s house to avoid all the little patches of flooring that creak underfoot. When he gets to the bottom he can see Bokuto sitting on the couch, texting on his phone beside a glass of water.

He seems to have sobered up a little and quickly notices Kenma staring at him from the base of the stairs. When he looks up he smiles (although Kenma notices the expression doesn't seem as genuine as it usually does).  
“Hey,” Bokuto says. “Kuroo said you were up on the roof, but I wasn't sure if you'd left yet. How are you feeling?”

His hair is a little matted, day-old hair gel making the monochrome strands stick up at odd angles. He looks tired, even under the lackluster lights of the living room. Kenma isn't quite sure what to say - he feels absolutely terrible in body and mind, but that isn't something you're supposed to tell people in social situations, right? You’re just supposed to smile and say _“Good, you?”_ \- not admit your gut wrenching loneliness or how you’ve been spending your Saturday nights crying alone in your room. Kenma’s realized over the period of his short lifespan that people have their own problems; they don't want to deal with yours too.

Kenma doesn't say anything but Bokuto is still staring expectantly at him, politely waiting for him to reply. Bokuto is a good man, he thinks, a little too overwhelming at times, but Kenma suspects that might be because he doesn't know how to handle people with bipolar disorder. But, he’s perfect for Kuroo - treats him right - and that’s all Kenma’s ever asked for his best friend. Kuroo deserves more people like Bokuto in his life; God knows he’s been through enough shit.

Kenma looks at the ground, letting his hair cover his face. He feels like a child hiding behind their mother’s skirt, scared and a little pathetic. It’s a bad habit he just can't seem to shake.  
He still doesn't know what to say, so he just shrugs without a word and makes a beeline for the front door, putting on his shoes and shutting it gently behind him.

 

* * *

 

 _You left all of your stuff. I think that means you're coming back, right?_  
[delete]

 

* * *

 

At night, he watches television to help himself fall asleep. Or, he watches television to stay awake. He hasn’t quite figured out which one it is yet.

Back when Hinata still slept beside him and Kenma’s bed didn't feel so big, the two of them rarely touched the big, blocky box sitting on the wardrobe. They’d just let it collect dust, only ever turning it on to watch the occasional movie classic on cable, curled together like two strings wound from the same ball of yarn.

Whenever Kenma woke up in the morning, it would be off. Now it just startles him awake whenever he lets sleep catch him off guard.

Some nights he counts the commercials for antidepressants. It seems logical that pharmaceutical companies would advertise in the middle of night. It’s when people are most vulnerable, Kenma thinks, more in-tuned to themselves. Their fears, their worries. It reminds them that, yes, they do feel alone and, no, don't let them be lonely.

One commercial for Prozac, fluoxetine, says simply _Your Life is Waiting_ ; white text against a grainy black background. It flashes across the screen, no audio, and Kenma briefly wonders for what. For what is it waiting for? For life, he supposes.

He closes his eyes, breathes deep, tastes blood. When he opens them again, _Your Life is Waiting_ stares back at him in the darkness. He blinks again. The text remains.

He repeats the process, and this time when he opens his eyes the text has changed. _It’s Alright_ , it reads. He blinks again and it changes once again.

_These Things Take Time._

He blinks.

_The Wound Will Heal._

_You’ll Get Better._

_It's Not Your Fault._

_Some People Fall Out of Love._

_Some People Fall Out of Love._

_Some People Fall Out of Love._

He supposes he is dreaming.

 

* * *

 

 _Please call me._  
[delete]

 

* * *

 

They all go to the amusement park together; him, Hinata, Bokuto, and Kuroo. Kuroo calls it a double date and Kenma calls it a free meal and admission.

He doesn’t really want to go - there’s too many people, it’s too hot even though the sun is almost ready to set, and Bokuto and Kuroo are being their obnoxious selves. They’re drawing too much attention and all Kenma wants to do is hide. Hinata can tell, the way he brushes their knuckles together and tries to distract Kenma with small talk, muttering soft nothings in Kenma’s ear when he can feel him tense.

Hinata’s always been good like that. He can read Kenma’s unconscious cues (picking his nails and averting his gaze and his shaking breath and the fear, the fear, the _fear_ ); he figures out what situations make Kenma anxious without even needing to be told and tries his best to calm him down. He’s quiet when he needs to be and he’s loud when Kenma wants to draw the attention away from himself and towards someone else.

For now he just presses close to Kenma, trying to make his body look bigger so he can make Kenma’s seem smaller.

Bokuto and Kuroo are walking ahead of them, laughing and yelling, swinging their arms as they hold each other’s hands. Bokuto leans over and places a messy kiss on Kuroo’s cheek and Kuroo responds by grabbing his hair and making-out with him in the middle of the walkway. Kenma scowls and Hinata laughs, bumping their shoulders together.

Eventually they get a meal at the food court. Kuroo pays as per group vote and they all settle down to watch Bokuto feed Kuroo some of his fries and smear ketchup on his nose. Hinata picks the tomatoes out of his burger and places them on Kenma’s plate, and Kenma absentmindedly stuffs them on his own patty while Kuroo tells him about the couch him and Bokuto broke last week while wrestling. Kenma assumes wrestling is codename for vigorous sex, but he neglects to mention that fact.

They laugh and talk and for once Kenma feels comfortable about the situation. Hinata’s knees bump against his and Kenma hooks their pinkies together under the table. It all feels so domestic, so serene. The park has cleared out nicely and the sun is fat and heavy in the sky, threatening to slip below the horizon any second now. There are a few couples wandering around the park and for some reason Kenma gets a heavy feeling in his chest watching them walk around, hand in hand.

They barely finish eating before Bokuto drags Kuroo off to test his muscle strength at one of the game stalls, leaving Kenma and Hinata behind to clean up their mess.  
Kenma unhooks their pinkies when he stands and he almost doesn't catch the slight downturn of Hinata’s lips as he goes to throw the wrappers in the garbage.

Bokuto and Kuroo are back later as Hinata and Kenma are walking towards the Ferris wheel. There's a lifeless stuffed animal drooped over Bokuto’s shoulders, its head hiccuping with every step he takes, and Kuroo is laughing beside him while he tells an animated story. Hinata smiles and waves when they bound over, renewed and energetic.

“You guys have to listen to this.” Kuroo tells them, nudging Bokuto to take a step towards the two other boys. Bokuto passes the stuffed animal to Kuroo, stands dead ahead of them, and crosses his arms. He has a serious expression, brows knitted and lips drawn into a straight line. Kenma shrinks back.

“ _Hello_.” He says in fragmented English. “ _My name is Bokuto Koutarou, how are you today?_ ” Kenma’s face contorts. He doesn’t understand the joke and looks to Kuroo for guidance, but Bokuto speaks again.

“ _Can you pass the chicken and beans? I like salad._ ” Kenma snorts at that one, an amused quirk of the lips. Hinata starts to giggle beside him so Kenma starts to smile more. Bokuto’s English is choppy and slurred - pretty hard to understand, but then again Kenma has never been good at speaking, let alone another language.

“ _My boyfriend enjoys sucking very many dicks. He smells like bread._ ” Bokuto’s expression, of course, is still very stern as he says this. Kenma actually starts to laugh, soft wispy sounds stumbling from his mouth before he quickly tries to stifle them with his hand. It’s no use, he can’t stop - Kuroo is bent over at his waist cackling and Hinata’s snorting as he giggles like a child. It’s contagious, and the hand Hinata’s hooked on Kenma’s shoulder coupled with everyone laughing and smiling makes him feel warm.

“I like seeing you laugh.” Hinata tells Kenma later on while they’re standing in line at the Ferris wheel. His cheeks are a soft rosebud red. “You always cover your mouth with your hand, but sometimes when you think something is _really_ funny you throw your head back and your nose scrunches up and your laugh is all soft and breathy. It's so cute - you're so pretty Kenma; I don't know how you do it. It really makes my heart go _gwah!_ and _bwah!_ , you know? It’s crazy!” His hands explode from his sides as if to replicate his heart bursting out of his chest and Kenma thinks the real problem is that Hinata doesn't know how beautiful his laugh - how beautiful _he_ can be.

Kenma wants to be baptized in it. Linger in Hinata’s sunlight for a long time.

He wants to grab Hinata’s hand just like Bokuto and Kuroo, intertwine their fingers and shout: _Look! Look at my boyfriend - can't you see how amazing he is? He can do so much better than me, and God knows I don't deserve him, but I love him, I love him._

Instead, Kenma keeps to himself. His hands don't move, tethered in place by the chains of his own anxiety. They’re out in public - people are _watching_. Bokuto and Kuroo don’t mind, but Kenma thinks that if people were looking at him like that he might vomit.

The staff member working at the ride ushers the two of them into a seat before Kenma can respond. As soon as the metal supporting bar comes down and pins them into place, Kenma grips it with white knuckles. He’s terrified of heights which, granted, isn't saying much since he’s terrified of most things. But, his psychologist told him it’s good to push his comfort zone little by little each and every day, and although Kenma thinks that he’s already pushed himself just by leaving his apartment today, he’s also doing this for Hinata.  
The Ferris wheel was the only ride Hinata had specifically asked Kenma to go on with him today, and Kenma _needs_ to show that he can do things for Hinata too. That he’s not just baggage, that he can reciprocate Hinata’s unyielding love and support.

The opporator moves them forward to fill the next seat and the wheel lurches under Kenma’s feet like an upset stomach. His grip tightens and he glances at Hinata out of the corner of his eye.  
Hinata is smiling as bright as day, a row of off-white teeth on full display. Kenma can see one of his canine teeth, chipped from a volleyball game from two years ago. He studies the iota of an imperfection for a minute longer before, once again, the ride jostles him, shaking his worries back to life. Hinata catches Kenma’s gaze and his smile immediately drops, concern staining his features like ink on paper. “Kenma?” He asks and they rise higher in the sky. Their seat sways and Kenma feels his gut drop.

“Are you okay? Do you want to get off?” Hinata turns to check on the opporator - maybe to ask if they can be let off before the ride actually begins - but the movement shifts them back and forth. Kenma shakes his head almost aggressively as he chokes out a strained “No.”, and instead grabs Hinata’s hand. He crushes Hinata’s fingers with the same death-grip he’d had on the support bar before taking a stuttered breath. “Just… Just hold my hand, please.”

Hinata just smiles, barely bats an eyelash and says: “Yeah, okay.”

A few seats below them are Kuroo and Bokuto, laughing as Kuroo uses the selfie-stick he’d bought earlier to snap pictures of them and the stuffed animal that’s nestled between their thighs.

The ride begins to turn and Kenma feels his body move with it. His mind flashes to scenarios of him and Hinata dropping out of the sky, their bodies crashing into the concrete below. He thinks about his bones snapping like peanut brittle, or his falling body getting impaled on a stray piece of metal. Loose bolts can cause catastrophes - how often do they inspect these rides anyways?

“Your thinking too loud.” Hinata says, snapping Kenma out of his trainwreck of paranoia. There’s nothing rude about his tone - in fact Kenma suspects that Hinata is trying to draw him out of his reverie and back to the real world; trying to tell him _“It's okay, you're here with me”_.

Kenma exhales a heavy sigh from his nose and loosens his vice grip on Hinata’s hand. Hinata doesn't seem to mind (and, really, he never does), instead using the opportunity to tangle their fingers together properly. He squeezes once, gently, reassuring. Kenma leans into his side and sighs again.

“There’s nothing to worry about.” Hinata tells him. Kenma almost rolls his eyes - sure, he’s never heard _that_ one before. “I mean, like, you don't have to worry _as much_ when you're with me. Let me take some of the weight off your shoulders. I'm here to support you, Kenma.”

“I know.” Kenma squeezes back. He can feel the warmth radiating through Hinata’s t-shirt despite the cold air dropping with the evening sky. “Thank you.”

They settle into a somewhat comfortable silence as the wheel continues its lazy rotations. It’s nice, honestly, once you get used to it. The wind running its hands through Kenma’s hair, the feeling of Hinata pressed so close to him, the sky drifting from purple to pink, orange to indigo.  
Kenma sighs and slumps a little in the chair, looking at Hinata. Their eyes catch again but this time Hinata just smiles and lifts their hands to kiss the crevice where their fingers are conjoined. Kenma smiles back with cherry stained cheeks, chews the inside of his lip in brief contemplation, and sits back up, sliding his free hand along Hinata’s jaw. Hinata’s eyes look impossibly wide, like two gold coins glued to his eyelids, and Kenma takes the opportunity to close the short distance between them and kiss him.

Hinat smiles - no, _grins_ into Kenma’s lips and Kenma feels a soft exhale leaving him at the contact. The stars begin flicker above, leaving the two of them under the cover of darkness. They stay like that for a few heartbeats, lips slotted and hands clasped, until Bokuto and Kuroo catch sight of them from their chair and begin to whoop and holler.

Kenma promptly flips them off.

 

* * *

 

“ _Kenma,_ ” Hinata breathes, hot against Kenma’s neck. “Tell me what you want.”

They’re rocking together on the couch on Saturday evening, two halves becoming a whole. Kenma’s trying his best to move his hips against Hinata, press his Pacific Time against Hinata’s Standard Time, but his legs feel weak as if all the bone and all the muscle has dissolved into nothing but smooth honey. He can feel Hinata pushing little crescent nail marks into his hips and he squirms at the idea of having to rub hydrogen peroxide into the skin later.

“ _Kenma,”_ Hinata gasps again. There's a note of desperation in his tone. “ _Tell me what you want.”_

 _More, more, more,_ Kenma thinks. _I want more. Hurt me; make me feel good._

He sighs into Hinata’s neck, stuttered and aching, before rutting himself against the dip of Hinata’s stomach. Hinata speeds up to meet Kenma’s bobbing hips, running his hands up and down Kenma’s ribs before moving to the vertebrae of his back, taking special care to touch each and every notch pressing against paper thin skin. Kenma wonders if he’s counting them.

He likes it like this. He can feel Hinata moving in him; every ridge, every vein, every little shudder and gasp. He doesn’t feel like a person, but an entity melded body and soul with Hinata. It’s a rather intimate feeling; rubbing two sweating bodies together until the friction and abstract feelings of love make them into the same person, the same feeling, the same _thing_ (whatever that is).

He's as sensitive as an open nerve when he slams down on Hinata’s groin. It’s not necessarily animalistic when they fuck, but it’s certainly not dainty and overly restrained. They cracked part of the headboard last time Kenma fucked Hinata against it, mind you.

It doesn't take long for Kenma to fall over the edge. He’s been staring right where the sidewalk ends for the past few minutes and grunts when Hinata finally wraps a hand around his cock. He’s finished in seconds, whining high and needy before slumping over in a daze. He uses the rest of his energy to lift his hips and let Hinata slip out of him before pulling off the condom and stroking him to completion. Hinata’s always been vocal during sex, unlike Kenma (of course), and cums with Kenma’s name burnt into his tongue. His back bows off the couch cushions before falling back with a soft _thunk_ , and Kenma curls over him, pressing their foreheads together.

They stay like that for a few minutes, noses touching, breaths mingling, sharing the same oxygen. It feels like the steady crashing of waves; inhale-exhale, positive-negative, again and again and again.

He thinks that Hinata is the moon to his ocean. Not just like this, when they're post-coital and exhausted, but in general too. It’s the symbiotic relationship of their dichotomous lives.  
Hinata’s his anchor, reeling Kenma back in whenever he tries to run away and hide. He creates the push and pull of their dynamic; instigates the motion to their lives because Kenma usually can't. He’s always there, and even if he isn't Kenma still feels his residual pull that keeps him going.

He also thinks that he’s too tired for a metaphorical analysis of his relationship and boyfriend, and decides to file the memory away for later rumination.

Instead, he lets his weight drop completely against Hinata and presses his forehead into the sweaty crook of Hinata’s neck, sighing contentedly. The couch is too small for both of them to fit side-by-side, and he’s worried he might be crushing him, but Hinata doesn't complain. He just wraps his arms loosely around Kenma’s lower back and peppers the crown of Kenma’s head with kisses.

Kenma’s hypnagogic when he hears Hinata murmur a lazy _”I love you”_.

He falls into a restful sleep.

 

* * *

 

 _I miss you like a goddamn limb._  
[delete]

 

* * *

 

He’s been thinking about their cooking nights together.

It’s hard to forget them when you now spend your time alone in the kitchen, watching a pot of water boil, the steam rising to the ceiling. It’s a bittersweet memory and Kenma cries over it ever since he started eating his meals alone; big globby tears falling into his steamed rice making it taste salty.

He accidentally prepares two bowls and only realizes his mistake when he’s sitting across his empty kitchen table staring at the vacant seat.

He thinks that love is cooking together. Disassembling and reassembling pieces until it makes something whole. He remembers standing in their ( _his_ ) kitchen, dimmed lighting, soft Western jazz humming through a speaker as he stirs vegetables. There's a glass of red wine on the counter next to him, poured from the same seven-hundred and fifty milliliter bottle they opened a week ago, while Hinata stays as close to his side as he can get without actually touching him. There's the steady beating of a knife tapping the chopping board while Hinata cuts uneven slices of onion and Kenma doesn't think he’s ever been so happy. There's a simple simplicity in it all; just keeping each other company.

They sit and eat stir fry at Kenma’s dining table. It’s a small circular slab of wood, scarred and stained from years of abuse (Kenma likes to pretend its wobbling legs aren't from Hinata fucking him over it). It barely fits two people but they make it work, pushing aside plates and glasses and letting their knees touch. Hinata runs a foot up his leg and Kenma laughs through a mouthful of rice.

Afterwards, when all their dishes are piled in the sink (Hinata swears he’ll help wash them tomorrow, but Kenma knows he’ll probably forget) they settle back down at the table and Kenma pours himself another glass of wine. Hinata grabs himself a cider from the fridge, says the wine is too dry for his sweet tooth. They sit, they drink, they talk.

Hinata tells him about the ugly bird he saw while out for a run that morning, about the nice couple he met down the street and, oh, _“Kenma you should really meet them! They're very nice. Let's bring them a bottle of wine sometime.”_ He talks about his volleyball practices; about how the new wing spiker has a real mean attitude and how he kind of reminds him of Kageyama. Hinata even tells him how he should probably call Kageyama sometime, just to check up on him, you know?

Kenma - well, Kenma doesn't say much. He’s never been a talker, he’d much rather listen to Hinata’s endless sea of stories. Let the words wash over him. It’s pretty calming, actually; he’s always liked the sound of Hinata’s voice.

Eventually the chatter simmers down - not that Hinata doesn’t have anything he wants to say, but rather he gets this look in his eye. He’s smiling lazily across the table, almost dreamily while he stares at Kenma. His eyes seem soft - although that might be thanks to the half-finished cider beside him, and Kenma thinks it’s the glasses of red wine in his system that makes him grin right back, showing his teeth. It’s not necessarily a smile, but rather Kenma pulling his lips back and scrunching his nose. Hinata just laughs and stands from his chair, offering Kenma an outward facing palm.

Kenma stares at it dumbly for a second before he sets down his wine and extends his own hand. Hinata grabs him, nearly toppling over the fragile glass and he’s pulled up and out of his seat. They shuffle beside the sad excuse for a table and stand there for a little while, hands clasped and hanging low. Kenma studies him for a little bit; catches the last of the sunlight climbing through his apartment window and kissing Hinata’s skin, as if the sun just can't leave that boy alone. It’s in his laugh, it’s in his eyes, it’s in his heart and Kenma just loves this boy.  
They start to rock together, Hinata and him. Hinata initiates it and Kenma follows close behind with timid footsteps and a swollen heart. The last of the sunlight is gone now but Kenma still feels warm as he inches closer. Their breaths mingle and meet, their bodies press close, and they begin to dance, slow as decades in Kenma’s tiny little apartment.

He thinks that as long as he’s dancing with Hinata like this, nothing's going to hurt him. As long as he’s with Hinata, he’ll be just fine. The only light now comes from the lamp hanging low over the kitchen table, dimmed; cars are honking on the street below and heavy clouds pregnant with rain pool around the edges of their apartment window. Kenma leans his head down, slides his hand up to Hinata’s shoulder and nestles himself in the crook of Hinata’s neck where he always smells the strongest. Where he smells like home.

It’s a little awkward with their height difference but Hinata just accommodates him, craning his head to the side and pressing his forehead against Kenma’s shoulder. Kenma’s first instinct is to unfold him, but instead he just kisses the taut muscle where Hinata’s neck connects with his shoulder. Softly, just once.  
Hinata, oh, he just sighs. Runs his hand up Kenma’s back and loosely grips the fabric of his shirt.

They don't talk - just stand there, swaying to the motion of regular love.

 

* * *

 

He’s sitting in the living room of his apartment, knees pressed against his chest as the synthetic fibres of his couch scratch at his legs. Hinata is standing in front of him, an uncharacteristic frown etched so deep in his face it looks as though it were set in stone. They’ve been arguing for hours now - or, well, not necessarily arguing but moreso Hinata trying to communicate his concerns and Kenma being too close to tears to reply.  
It's been like this an awful lot lately, Kenma thinks. The fights, the yelling, the crying and frustration. Sleeping with their backs turned to each other or just sleeping alone. These days it feels like the distance between them is the size of a planet.

“I mean - do you even love me anymore, Kenma?”

 _I do._ He thinks desperately. _I love you so goddamn much. I can't imagine my life without you - and - and I know I don't always show it but I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you - please don't get upset. Please don't get frustrated I'm trying my best._

He composes an entire soliloquy in his head, but when he looks up he realizes he still hasn't said anything and Hinata has started to cry. Kenma’s words feel sticky, like a wad of gum stuck in his throat and he scrambles to find something - _anything_ \- to say. When his voice won't come he only nods, once, and Hinata sighs, looks away, and runs a shaking palm through his hair.

“I don't know what to do.” Hinata finally admits. His words slice the air where Kenma doesn't dare to draw a knife.

 _It was a long time coming,_ he thinks.

“You never talk to me, Kenma, you never tell me what's wrong. You always just disappear into your own little world and it _hurts_ , it hurts me so much because I just… I just don't know what to do.”

 _Please just be there for me. I swear I'll get better - I swear I'll change._ Kenma wants to pour his heart out, toss Hinata a liferaft and save him, save them. But he can't, he can't, he _can't_. Every time he opens his mouth it seems too late and Hinata is growing even more frustrated by the second.

“A relationship is give and take, Kenma. You just have to reciprocate once in awhile. And - and I know it's hard. I know your anxiety makes it hard for you to hold my hand in public, or even go on dates, but sometimes you just make me feel so… unloved… I guess. Like you don't want to be around me - or you think it’s gross when I try to kiss my boyfriend of _six years_ on on the cheek after he buys me dinner.”

Kenma wants to tell him that he shows his love in different ways. That he shows his love when he tucks Hinata in after he falls asleep on the couch after a long day at work. When he calls Hinata’s mom to ask her for her porkbun recipe, just because Hinata mentioned that he missed them. When he shows up to each and every single one of Hinata’s volleyball games even though the large crowds make his skin crawl and heart pound. When he wakes up early even though he hates mornings to make sure Hinata has everything packed before an away-game with his team. When he forces himself to go to crowded supermarkets and uses the money he’s been saving for a new video game to buy groceries and surprise Hinata with a five-course meal. When he leaves handwritten notes in Hinata’s lunch, and when he buys Hinata’s favourite soap brand for the dishes even if he doesn't like the smell.  
He isn't as vocal as Hinata and he has a hard time outwardly saying _I love you_ , but he _does_ love him. (And some nights, when Hinata is sleeping soundlessly on the pillow next to his, he mutters how much he loves him and all the reasons _why_ he loves him again and again, over and over. A mantra of pure adoration and affection.)

Kenma wants to tell him all of this - _needs_ to tell him, but he can't. He just can't. His words are caught between taste and tongue, a trainwreck of verbs and nouns and adjectives. Everytime he tries to open his mouth, his jaw locks shut. Anxiety stomps in his skull with banging fists and angry whispers, telling him: _what if you say something wrong? What if you make him cry even more? This is all your fault, this is all your fault._

“Shouyou, please…” Is all Kenma can choke out before his teeth are back to grinding against each other.

“No, Kenma - I…” Hinata sighs again and crosses his arms. His eyes are red around the rims and Kenma notices tears still plump around the edges. He wants to wipe them away.

“I think…” Hinata chews the words carefully, as if he isn't quite sure what to say or how to say it. “I think we should see other people. I don't think this is working.”

Kenma draws his knees tighter to his chest. He stares at the ground; studies the patchy weave of his carpet as his brain tries to block out the words.

“Will you just answer me? Please?” Hinata’s voice is soft but filled with so much emotion. He’s looking for sign from Kenma, a reason to stay.  
Kenma is a marble statue as he sits there on the couch. His mind has gone blank and he tries to unhear the words he’s been fearing since he first started this relationship.

A heavy sigh and a shuffling of feet. The hesitation in Hinata’s voice is tangible as he speaks. “I guess… I guess this is goodbye then.”

Kenna still doesn't move, doesn't speak.

He doesn't see Hinata leave but he hears the door click shut. It's a gentle sound, unwarranted for the situation, and suddenly Kenma finds himself very alone.

 

* * *

 

 _Do you think about me as much as I think about you?_  
[delete]

 

* * *

 

“I had another dream last night.”

They're lying orthogonal to each other, Hinata’s hands running through Kenma’s hair as he prunes like a bird and Kenma hums like a bee. The dappled sunlight is barely breaking through the tinted glass of their eastern-facing apartment windows, golden streaks cutting through the silence of the room in brilliant displays of filtered light. One beam slices cleanly across Kenma’s abdomen, highlighting the sway of his diaphragm, the particles of dust that settle onto his sex, the hickeys scattered along the bow of his hips.

He glances up through strands of greasy hair, scouring his boyfriend’s face to try and read his expression. He squints a little when the sun catches his eye.  
Hinata just hums, low in his throat, voice gravelly and post-coital as he untangles a particularly nasty knot from Kenma’s hair.

He’s been having these dreams a lot, Kenma thinks. Nearly every night, time and time again. Sometimes Hinata shakes him awake, crying, and Kenma holds him until the sun comes up. Sometimes he just sits in bed, uncharacteristic quiet flooding the room hours after the day should have started, and all Kenma can do is lay curled next to him like a faithful old hound.

“What was this one about?” He asks, voice barely breaking a whisper and Hinata’s hands stutter in his hair. His tongue peeks out past his lips and his eyebrows fold as he tries to remember the dream. Kenma can't help but think the expression is cute.

“It was a lot like the others.” He chews the words thoughtfully. “We were in Paris, I guess? I remember the big tower-” _The Eiffel Tower_ , Kenma tells him in his head. “-And we were dancers, the best of our time. We were in love - of course we were - but we were drunk after a concert. Neither of us looked when we stepped out onto the street but I… I pushed you out of the way as soon as I saw the headlights.”

Kenma frowns.

“The dream before that,” He tells him in a whispering voice, as if he were sharing a secret. “We were fishermen somewhere in the nineteen twenties. I think you loved me in that dream because you tried to jump in after me when a wave pushed me overboard.

“And even before that we were lovers in an affair. That one was weird we - we didn't look like each other. Not like the other dreams; but I knew it was you. You had the same smile, the same laugh - you picked at your nails like you do when you're anxious - I just, I just _knew_ it was you.

“We were always meeting in a field, under the cover of darkness. I remember that much. We used to drink beers and stargaze together, and God Kenma we were so in love. But we left each other, stayed with our spouses, had kids, went our separate ways. I, uh, I don’t think we ever saw each other again in that one.”

Hinata’s breath hitches a little and he accidentally pulls Kenma’s hair, hard enough to hurt.

“And, I think, even before that dream-” “Shouyou…” Kenma interrupts, voice soft and wavering as he turns to face Hinata completely. Hinata immediately stops, biting the inside of his mouth as if to physically barricade any other words from stumbling past his tongue. Kenma stares at him for a long while before sighing and reaching for Hinata’s hand.

“I…” He begins. “I don't know why we always have to break up or die in your dreams…” He’s upset, of course he is, but he’s trying his best not to show just how much it bugs him. Hinata just shakes his head and offers a sad smile so uncharacteristic of him that it shakes Kenma to the core of his foundation.  
He feels like one of Frida Kahlo’s deers when he looks at Hinata; arrows slicing cleanly between his ribs, through his chest, into his heart.

“No, no.” Hinata says, almost frantically as he grips Kenma’s hand tighter. “I think you're missing the point. It - it’s not about us dying, or whether or not we loved each other. I think these dreams are about how we always manage to find each other, time and time again. How I always seem to come back to you, no matter what lifetime we’re living in.”

“Still,” Kenma interjects and he feels like a complete fool for caring so much. Is he overeating?  
“Don't you… Ever dream about us growing old together? Getting married, buying a house -” _Raising kids together_ , he wants to say but cuts himself off.

Hinata, as gentle and sweet as ever, just hums and blinks slowly at Kenma. He moves from holding Kenma’s hand to interlocking their fingers and runs his thumb over the valleys of Kenma’s knuckles. Kenma studies Hinata’s nails; little beige ovals, untrimmed.

“I don't think so,” He admits finally and Kenma never realized he was holding his breath. “But, Kenma, they’re just dreams. They don't mean anything.”

 

* * *

 

He drives out of Tokyo. He drives and drives and drives until the city lights are smudged like ink in water, a blurry distortion of society. He takes the backroads as much as possible (driving on the highway makes him too nervous) and only stops when the scenery has changed from city, to suburbs, to isolated farmland.

He parks in a field, far from the roads buzzing with cars. He wonders if the owners of the property will see him and shoo him away, but there only houses are far in the distance and the grass is overgrown.

It is late.  
It is late and it is quiet and Kenma feels very, very unsure of all the emotions swirling in his head. He has for awhile now.  
He gets out of his car, a plastic bag heavy with a six pack of beer is nestled in his palm, and sits on the still-hot metal of the hood. The wind is ruffling his hair and he cranes his neck to look up at an odd, slow angle, like a poppy shaming itself in the nude breeze. Above him, endless stairs no longer tainted and dismissed by streetlamps and traffic lights. Below him, a sea of grass just waiting to swallow him whole.

He feels uneasy; alone in his loneliness. Lonely in his aloneness.

He opens a beer and sits there in the field, where the power lines hang low, where the clouds sit heavy and exhausted, and thinks. He thinks about Kuroo and Bokuto and how they’re doing - how he should probably return Kuroo’s calls at some point and how he should apologize to Bokuto for being rude to him at the house party. He thinks about his mother, his father. He finishes his beer, opens another one, and thinks about school and work, about that nice couple down the street - they never did bring them that bottle of wine.  
He thinks about Hinata.

He thinks about Hinata for a long, long time.

He wonders if he misses him as much as Kenma does. If he’s happy; what he did that day. He wonders how Wednesday’s volleyball practice went or if he’s eating properly; if he’s renting a new apartment or if he moved back in with Yachi. He wonders if Hinata thinks about him the way he thinks about him. He opens a third can.

He thinks about what would have happened if he sent any of those texts, thinks about all the what if’s. What if he had told Hinata everything he wanted to say. What if he had shown a little more compassion, a little more love. What if he wasn't so scared.

He thinks about himself.

He tries not to dwell on that thought for too because that makes him cry - maybe out of self-pity. There are no big, ugly tears that stain his face, no wailing. Just silent drops of salted water that pool at the corners of his eyes before he blinks them away.

Kenma’s head is fuzzy and his thoughts are erratic by the time he finished the rest of the beers. The alcohol weighs heavy in his stomach and he feels as if he’s swallowed a cloudy sky. He’s far too drunk to drive, so he simply climbs into the backseat of his car and falls into a dreamless sleep.

He wakes up with his cheek and shoulder pressed soppily against the car window. His neck cracks and his head hammers as he sits upright and runs a hand through greasy hair. His shirt is wet; the frost that had formed overnight has melted, soaking him right through to his collarbone. Kenma sighs, rubs his drooping eyelids and blindly reaches for his phone buzzing beside his thigh. The caller ID says _Kuro_ and Kenma hits decline before the third ring.

The caller window closes and instead a long list of messages floods his lock screen. Eight missed class from Kuroo, as well as a few text messages from him asking along the lines of _where are you?_. Three missed calls and four text messages from Bokuto, a text from Akaashi, and even one from Fukunaga.

Kenma wrinkles his nose and locks the screen, dimming it to a charcoal black in the early morning light. He feels like shit, mentally, physically, emotionally. All of these people worrying about him makes his heart sink even lower in his chest. He turns off the phone and tosses it on the ground, lying back onto the seat cushion and pressing his arm over his eyes.

He doesn’t do too much talking, these days.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, Kenma, are you still awake?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, okay.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No I just… I just wanted to talk.”

“About?”

“Nothing really. I think I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“Oh. Okay, yeah.”

...

“Hey, uhm. Do you ever, like, get the feeling we’ve met before?”

“I'm not sure what you mean…”

“Like, in past lives or something.”

“Are you thinking about those dreams again?”

“No - no. Or, maybe? I don't know. Sometimes I just get the strangest feeling that I've known you for longer than I actually have.”

“Hmm.”

“Do you… Do you think we’ll meet again? Like, in the future? In a different life?”

“I… I think so… I hope so. I don't want to imagine a life without you - I can't see myself without you beside me, Shouyou.”

“Me neither.”

…

“Hey, uh, Kenma?”

“Yes?”

“Do you… You still love me right?”

“...Of course I do. Why would you ask that?”

“Just checking I guess.”

“Come back to bed please, Shouyou. Come here.”

“Yeah, okay. I love you.”

“I do too. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Kenma. I love you. I love you a lot.”

“I love you too, Shouyou. Now, please, let's just go to sleep.”

 

* * *

 

 _Hey, I think we should talk._  
[delete]

 

**Author's Note:**

> the title also comes from one of my [favourite los campesinos songs](http://youtu.be/7pUHHJy6jZo). i'm over at my [writing tumblr](http://angiogenic.tumblr.com) if u want to talk about haikyuu boys n girls
> 
> edit: guys im fucking losing it this is my first ever fanfic and [lumpeen](http://lumpeen.tumblr.com/) on tumblr translated it to [russian](https://ficbook.net/readfic/4923684) !!!! such an honour !!!!!! go send them some love holy tamale dudes


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